


I Wanna Be Yours

by sporadic_obsession



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, M/M, Mentioned Bokuto Koutarou, Mentioned Suna Rintarou, singer Miya Atsumu
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-18
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-13 05:22:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29521509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sporadic_obsession/pseuds/sporadic_obsession
Summary: Sakusa asks for a song – Atsumu gives him everything.For SakuAtsu Fluff Week 2021Day 5: Confessions / Band AU / “Can you sing for me?”
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Kudos: 28
Collections: SakuAtsu Fluff Week 2021





	I Wanna Be Yours

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to another episode of "Danny likes band AUs maybe a little too much" – this time, sponsored by the SKTS fluff week. Also fuelled by equals amounts of exhaustion and caffeine – which is to say, excessive amounts. ~~(I think I blacked out while writing this. Ssh. Don't question it.)~~  
>  Go listen to [I Wanna Be Yours – Arctic Monkeys](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nyuo9-OjNNg) to get the feeling for what Atsumu is singing. I was gonna use Do I Wanna Know at first, but this one just... whispered to me.  
> Kudos and comments much appreciated, as always ~~(though this is purely self-indulgent at this point)~~. Hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it!
> 
> If you wanna scream at me about this, you can find me on [twitter here](https://twitter.com/sprdc_obssn)!

The air is heavy. The room is darkened, only the lit ends of cigarettes signaling that there’s anyone in it at all, the smoke trails fading long before they drift towards the small stage. It’s a quiet corner of a busy street, the perfect place to sit down and drink away one’s woes. The brick walls that encase the people hidden within them are stripped bare, much like the soul of one Miya Atsumu as he sits upon his tall stool in front of the microphone. This dingy old bar has become his home away from home, of sorts; a place where he can be himself with no qualms about who sees the rawest parts of him. That’s the whole point of music, anyway, isn’t it? To break down the walls one must erect around one’s heart in order to protect it, leaving it within reach for anyone who wishes to touch it. 

At present, Atsumu’s heart has been served to the uninterested crowd on a silver platter. Instead of resting easy inside his chest, it’s been offered to the patrons whose gaze he can’t meet due to the low lighting. His torso now carries a bleeding hole from where the rest of his emotions pour, voice husky and low as he sings along to songs he’s been throwing around in his head for far too long. To his left, his childhood best friend plucks at the strings of his shining black bass; to his right, an old lover who turned into a close friend strums at his electric guitar. The band’s drummer is still on trial, but Atsumu likes the guy – he’s always on beat, knows enough to put his own spin on songs that have been overplayed to the point of nausea. Atsumu holds his microphone as he leans into it, lips touching the cold metal grid with every other word, tongue flicking over the coldness it leaves behind on his skin. He offers himself to this crowd—like he does every Friday night—and he lets the feeling carry him until it’s time for a break.

Suna puts down his bass as the lights rise around the bar, and Atsumu is finally given the chance to scan the crowd. His eyes linger on a particular face, and he finds himself quirking his first smile of the night.

“I’m going out for a smoke,” the bassist says from Atsumu’s left, mostly as a courtesy; by now, he’s well aware that he won’t be having the man’s company. “I’ll be back soon. Order me something, will you?”

Atsumu gives a non-committal hum to Suna’s words, pushes himself to his feet and jumps down the short wooden platform that stands as a stage for his band to play upon. They’re not good enough for bigger stages—not that they’ve sought them, in any case—but this small bar has never failed them. Their weekly performance isn’t enough to pay the bills, but it’s not like Atsumu minds. He gets to work with his brother on weekdays, helping him run his own restaurant, and from Friday to Sunday he gets to indulge in his passion. It’s a good system, and he’s found himself a new reason to enjoy it.

“Heya, Omi-kun,” he greets as he reaches the bar counter where the reason for his imminent demise sits, casually leaning back against the bartop as he gives him a sideways glance. “Thought ya weren’t comin’ tonight.”

“You say that as if I haven’t been coming to your performances without fail since we met,” Sakusa replies, voice just a gentle hum against the low background music that’s playing during the small break in the performance. “You look tired.”

“Heh, s’just been a long night.” Atsumu avoids the other man’s gaze as he spots a glass sliding towards his waiting hands, a genuine grin crossing his lips for a brief moment.

“I see. I’ve ordered your usual.”

“Ya didn’t hafta, Omi. It’s yer birthday, not mine,” the singer says in reply, choosing to lean sideways against the bar so he can look at the dark-haired patron once again. “Happy birthday, by the way. I didn’t get’cha a gift.”

“Indulge me, then.” Sakusa Kiyoomi looks detached to the untrained eye, but Atsumu has learned how to read the subtle twist of his lips, the crinkles by his eyes; he knows when he means to smile, and has been chasing after the moment where the expression fully takes form for months now. “Well. Since you didn’t get me a gift, I think I’m entitled to ask for a song as compensation. Can you sing for me?”

Atsumu watches the way Sakusa avoids his gaze, how he chews on the inside of his cheek—he can tell because the skin hollows ever-so-slightly from where he’s watching—almost as if he’s nervous. He feels the ghost of his heart beat a fraction faster; it still feels as if his heart is not inside his own chest, but it’s almost like it’s trying to return. Atsumu doesn’t allow it to, not just yet, but offers his friend a gentle grin.

“‘Course. What do ya wanna hear, Omi?”

Atsumu watches as Sakusa downs a slow gulp of his liquid of choice for the night. He imagines it’s sweet—he doesn’t have the taste buds for sour drinks—and can almost picture the sugary sweet beverage traveling slowly down the other man’s throat. His eyes try to follow its path, sweeping over the gentle curve of his chapped lips, down the column of his throat—stopping a second too-long to watch the way his adam’s apple bobs with the motion—until he’s met with the uphill sweep of his collarbone, which he can see just peeking briefly from under his shirt. He looks back up into Sakusa’s eyes then—wishing for a second that he could be something sweet enough for him to taste—and finds the other man looking back at him, already.

“Sing me a secret, Miya,” the dark-haired man says, and before he can expand on this further, Atsumu sees the way his eyes narrow slightly as they focus on something over his shoulder.

“Tsum-Tsum!”

Atsumu turns to face his band’s most recent drummer, who’s bouncing over with his hand held tight by what appears to be his clear opposite. Atsumu likes Bokuto—not just as a musician, but also as a person—but he clearly has no sense of timing; he just crashed on what could possibly be the most fulcral moment of Atsumu’s potential love life, and he doesn’t even realize it. Atsumu doesn’t hold a grudge against him—he can’t, when he’s smiling so wide and gushing about his boyfriend who he’s more than happy to introduce them to—but he wishes he could spend a little longer in Sakusa’s sole company; he likes those few minutes he gets with him, every week.

He enjoys watching the way his dark eyes seem to sparkle whenever Atsumu spews one of his dumbest jokes without a care in the world; likes seeing the twitch of his lips as he holds back a genuine smile when he says something flattering. These stolen moments are his and his alone, and he hasn’t shared them with his twin brother, or his best friend, or even his old boyfriend who—as it turns out—is much better fit for him as a friend than as a lover; he likes keeping Sakusa as his own, for now. The texts exchanged between the two remain as something shared just between them. The love he’s been nurturing as it grows remains as his best kept secret.

_“Sing me a secret, Miya."_

The words repeat themselves in his head and Atsumu knows it’s time to come clean. To himself—because he’s been denying himself of what’s been clear from the moment he started looking for Sakusa in the crowd every time he performs, expression lighting up considerably as soon as he spots him—to his friends, and, most important of all, to Sakusa. It’s not fair that he’s holding the potential between them hostage just because his heart has been offered to one too many hands, already; it’s not just of him to keep them from growing simply because he’s scared. And he knows he is scared—can feel it in the gentle tremble of his hands as he drowns the rest of his liquid courage—but he’s determined to see this through.

When the band’s short break comes to an end, he offers Sakusa a promise that he’ll give him the gift he’s asked for, without even consulting his band mates. He knows the song he’ll sing—it’s been a part of their repertoire a few times in the past so he’s not worried about changing their setlist without a heads-up—but he decides to leave it for last. He settles in his high stool again as the lights dim down once more, although this time he knows where to look to see the subtle sparkle of Sakusa’s curls amidst the darkness. He keeps his gaze focused on where he knows the man to be, eyes growing accustomed to the low lights until he can make out his features – his strong jaw, sharp gaze, and those two little moles above his eyebrow that Atsumu has been dying to kiss for what feels like eternities now. He sings through the songs agreed previously without missing a beat, used to juggling the lovesick thoughts inside his head alongside the words that tumble from his lips.

“Thanks for comin’ tonight, folks.” He speaks into the microphone only when the second-half of the band’s set is almost done. “Tonight’s closer is a birthday gift,” he continues, a smile crossing his lips as he spots the faint ghost of a grin on Sakusa’s own expression from this far. “Happy birthday again, Omi. Here’s yer song.”

Turning around slightly, he warns his band mates of the song change, ignoring the surprised expressions on their faces. He gives them a moment to adjust, closing his eyes as both hands hold onto his microphone, body swaying slightly as the rhythm for the song is set.

_“_ _I wanna be your vacuum cleaner,_ _  
_ _Breathing in your dust..._ _  
_ _I wanna be your Ford Cortina,_ _  
_ _I will never rust…"_

Atsumu sings slow, enunciating every word with care. He needs Sakusa to understand; there’s no other way he could ever confess. Music has been the driving force behind his emotions for years now—ever since he first heard his mother play gentle lullabies for him on her old piano—so it’s always been his failsafe when he knows the words won’t hold up to what he wants to say, otherwise. He slowly opens his eyes, lids heavy as he glances at where he knows Sakusa is looking back at him.

_“If you like your coffee hot,_ _  
_ _Let me be your coffee pot..._ _  
_ _You call the shots, babe –_ _  
_ _I just wanna be yours…”_

He sees the moment the words hit Sakusa – the way his breath stalls on its way into the other man’s lungs.

He wants to be the air he breathes so he can be held that tightly into his chest.

_“Secrets I have held in my heart_ _  
_ _Are harder to hide than I thought –_ _  
_ _Maybe I just wanna be yours._ _  
_ _I wanna be yours…_

_I wanna be yours…_ _  
_ _Wanna be yours…_ _  
_ _Wanna be yours…_ _  
_ _Wanna be yours…”_

Atsumu watches the way Sakusa leans forward on his own high stool, his face now only half in the shadows. His eyes follow the motion of Sakusa’s tongue as it sweeps over his bottom lip, making it glisten slightly – to Atsumu, it looks like a beacon in the darkness. He feels the pull to be closer, to trace Sakusa’s face with the gentlest of touches, to feel just how sweet he likes his drinks straight from his lips. He wants to feel the weight of Sakusa’s body over his and wants to know the sounds he makes when he’s coming apart alongside him.

He wonders what his name sounds like on his tongue.

_“Let me be your 'leccy meter_ _  
_ _And I'll never run out._ _  
_ _Let me be the portable heater_ _  
_ _That you'll get cold without._ _  
_ _I wanna be your setting lotion –_ _  
_ _Hold your hair in deep devotion,_ __  
_At least as deep as the Pacific Ocean…_  
_Now I wanna be yours."_

Atsumu continues to sing the familiar words, now with one hand secured around the microphone—even though it's safely tucked into the stand—while the other taps along the slow rhythm on his thigh. His eyes are still trained on Sakusa, taking in the small changes in his expression, noticing his wandering gaze. He feels trapped in this moment, like the world has faded out of his vision and he can only see the dark-haired man he’s singing to. It’s a weird notion—knowing he’s not alone with him, but feeling like he is nonetheless—but Atsumu welcomes it. In this moment, he feels whole – like the hole in his chest has been filled with half of his heart, and the half of someone else’s; the flesh around it has grown strong and thick, the wound closing to make sure they’re both safe and sound. He welcomes the feeling, lips molding the words with all the affection he has to give until the song is over.

There’s a quiet but warm applause when they’re done. Atsumu appreciates it—the acknowledgement of his talent and effort is something he’ll never tire of—and stands to bow alongside his bandmates. They have a million questions, he knows, but he will have time for that later. For now, he follows the same path he did during his break – jump down the small stage, walk around tables and other patrons, stop by the counter. This time, he stands right in front of Sakusa’s seat, his heart beating at a mile per minute inside his chest—no longer offered for everyone to do with as they please—as he waits for his response.

“You should know,” Sakusa says after a minute of silence has stretched too thin between them, his voice rough as he looks down at Atsumu, “that I don’t have any dust for you to breathe in, Miya,” he continues, and there’s a twitch to his jaw that Atsumu has learned is a reflex when he’s trying not to widen his smile.

“Hope ya know I didn’t mean that _literally_ , Omi,” the singer replies, the teasing tone in his voice light and airy as he tries not to let the nerves of waiting for Sakusa’s response to his confession take over his entire body.

“So you don’t wanna be mine?”

“Oh, no, that part I meant,” Atsumu says with practiced ease, trying to go for a nonchalant disposition. He’s sure Sakusa can see the way his hands tremble before he shoves them in the pockets of his jeans, though. “If you’ll have me, that is.”

“Hm.”

Sakusa’s eyes are half-closed as he slides from his stool until he’s standing chest to chest with the singer, his face tilted down slightly so he can look into Atsumu’s eyes. They’re not touching—although there’s only about an inch of air between them—but Atsumu can smell the sweet scent of Sakusa’s cologne from this close. He doesn’t know if it’s just a fabricated parfum or if it’s how Sakusa naturally smells, but he’s intoxicated as it takes over his senses, eyes hooded as he looks back into those dark orbs like they’re the most precious jewel he has ever seen. He doesn’t dare try to break the distance between them—he also meant it when he sang that Sakusa would be the one calling the shots—but he prays to a God he doesn’t believe in that Sakusa will; he’s growing desperate, here.

“May I ask for another birthday gift?” Sakusa whispers, and his voice sounds both gentle and nervous, like he’s unsure whether he’s doing the right thing by stepping into the abyss that is Miya Atsumu’s love.

“Anything, Omi,” the singer replies, and there’s no hesitation in his own tone; he knows he’d happily do anything Sakusa asked of him, right now, with the way he’s completely bewitched by this man.

“Kiss me.”

Atsumu is happy to comply, but he doesn’t rush into it. He’s slow with the way his hands emerge from his pockets—one of them rising to cup one of his cheeks, the other resting on the cusp of his waist—and careful to trace the moment into a beautiful melody that only the two of them can hear. He leans up, eyes crossing slightly as he refuses to look away from Sakusa’s own until the very last second. He feels the flutter of Sakusa’s eyelashes against his cheekbones with his head tilted, taking a moment to breathe the air straight from Sakusa’s lips before he closes into them in a gentle kiss. There’s so much he wants to do—so many kisses he wants to try, so much he wants to taste—but he takes his time with this one kiss; the first of many, he hopes. He feels the slight roughness of Sakusa’s chapped lips against his own, and smiles into it when he hears the soft sound that rises from the other man’s throat.

“Eager much, Omi-kun?” He teases in a murmur, pulling back just enough that he can feel the slight pout Sakusa offers him in return for his words.

When he opens his eyes, Sakusa is staring back at him with narrowed eyes, but there’s a heat in his cheeks that wasn’t there previously; Atsumu relishes in it.

“Says the man who offered to be my _coffee pot_ ,” Sakusa teases back, and Atsumu can’t help the laugh that falls from his lips, shaking the tender atmosphere they’ve created between them. The charged air doesn’t fall apart – far from it, it morphs into a warm blanket that encloses them both, especially when Atsumu is rewarded with Sakusa’s own laugh. “Just shut up and kiss me again, _Atsumu_.”

The shiver up the singer’s spine doesn’t go unnoticed, but none of them mention it. Instead, Sakusa’s hands settle over Atsumu’s chest in a gentle hold, while Atsumu’s arm wraps fully around his waist, tugging him impossibly closer.

“Anythin’ ya want, Omi,” the singer whispers as he closes the distance between their lips once again, “I’m yours.”


End file.
